The carnage…the carnage was everywhere. The room, quite simply, was a bloodbath.
It's not that John hadn't been prepared for the sight, but the breadth of the mess…well no lie: John was traumatized and it didn't take a deductive genius like Sherlock Holmes to see it. Briefly the good doctor wished for a shock blanket.
"How?"
That self-same deductive genius stood beside John and shook his head, for once as mystified as his colleague. "Seriously John, how?"
It all started…well to say innocently would be a lie. There was most certainly premeditation, but honestly no real harm had been intended. And yet the evidence, the red, dripping evidence was all over the living room wall, on the rug, the coffee table, the couch, it was even damn well on both lamps.
If push came to shove, John would blame Sherlock for acting out of character. This was his fault, no doubt about it. All Sherlock had needed to do was say "No, thank you," as he always did. As he always did, and none of this would have happened.
Instead he had said yes. Again. And again. And again. And again.
"Seriously?"
That was John, three hours previous.
"Really?"
Sherlock bent low over a large pile of compost in their kitchen sink. A bucket of the slop had been taken from the garden of a murdered MP and Sherlock was searching the mess for a rare worm that would give the MP's husband his alibi.
"You never say yes," John said, hands in the air, one fisted around a wine glass, the other around a magnum of wine.
"Found you!" Sherlock scooped the elusive worm out of the compost with a tea cup—John's favorite, of course—and placed it in an empty butter tub, which he then immediately put down so he could jump happily around the kitchen. "Well I'm saying yes tonight. Now pour, John, pour!"
The first glass went down fast and easy, as Sherlock and John discussed the case, John asking questions and taking notes for the blog. The second glass they enjoyed in the living room, in between texts to and from Lestrade. By the time they were on their third, Sherlock broke character again and said, "I'm hungry, what's for dinner?"
Giddy with wine, John was tempted to say, "Me," but there was no way he'd get an erection now, not with three glasses in him. And besides, Sherlock asking for food was even rarer than the smelly little worm wiggling around in the butter tub.
Spaghetti was about the only thing John had the coordination to make when drunk, but even that turned into a production when Sherlock followed him into the kitchen, then followed him all over the kitchen, barefoot, talkative, and tipsy.
By the time the pasta was done, and the sauce made, Sherlock was either on his fifth glass of wine—which couldn't be as they'd run out two glasses ago—or he was drinking blood. It said so much that John wouldn't be surprised either way.
"I want lots of sauce on it," the detective said, his words all mushy and smiley. "Lots of sauce." Standing together at the stove, Sherlock rested his chin on John's shoulder, watched him fill two bowls. "Saucy. It should be very, very saucy." Sherlock snaked a hand beneath John's jumper, "Like you."
"Shit!"
John jerked away reflexively from the hot stove element, stomped hard on—and tripped over—Sherlock's bare foot, and both men went down.
Sitting up fast, Sherlock grabbed John's hand, checking the burn. "How badly does it hurt?"
Prone on the floor, John did one of his endlessly-fascinating John things: He laughed. "Oh, I'm okay. It was just…I just got surprised. My reactions are all catty-wampus with the wine. Is that blood?"
Sherlock frowned hard at John's wrist, "Blood? No, it's just very red and—"
"Noooo. What you're drinking. It can't be wine, we ran out and yet still you have…well, something."
Sherlock made an "ah ha" face, grabbed his glass from the kitchen table. "It's wine. Mrs. Hudson brought it by last week. Gift from a friend, but Mrs. Hudson doesn't like red." The detective snagged his lover's wrist again, dipped his finger in the wine, let a few drops dribble over John's burn, then blew on it.
John sighed, "Oh, that's a bit better, thank you."
So Sherlock did it again. Then again. The third time he took a mouthful of the wine, leaned over, and passed it into his lover's mouth. They went through an entire glass this way, there on the floor, before Sherlock said huskily, "Time for dinner."
John was surprised. And then not surprised at all. For many, many weeks he'd been trying to develop this very simple connection in Sherlock's over-active brain: Sex = Food. Apparently the pathway was more developed than he'd realized.
So they had dinner. With more wine. Which so clearly wasn't a good idea later but at the time seemed a marvelous plan.
Which was why it also seemed like a marvelous plan to use one another's naked bodies as bowls, and their fingers and mouths as flatware. On the floor. In the living room. Of course.
"Stop wiggling."
"It's hot."
"It's been in the fridge for five minutes. With the sauce."
"It tickles."
"Good." Sherlock smiled, and continued dropping small slippery bunches of spaghetti onto John's stomach and chest.
Stretched out on the rug, a pillow under his head, John grinned back and felt as benevolent as a Buddha watching his lover, all intent, focused, eyes bright, breathing heavily. I'd bathe in pasta sauce or gravy or melted chocolate, just to see that look on your face.
Fortunately he didn't have to, all he had to do was just stop wiggling. But when Sherlock dribbled teaspoonfuls of sauce over the pasta John couldn't help it. "It tickles!"
In a flash Sherlock was on top of him, using his size and weight to hold John still. "Don't move," the detective whispered, legs around his lover's hips, hands pressing his shoulders down, an entire messy meal untouched between their bodies.
John stilled. After a moment he bit his lip, smiled a small smile, then said very softly, "Well? Eat me."
Sherlock groaned, suddenly famished. He wriggled down John's body until his mouth was over one tomato-y nipple. He then proceeded to suck.
At first there was a hint of basil, then a touch of pepper, a little cayenne. After that, the flavor was much more complex and simply the most delicious thing Sherlock had ever put in his mouth: all salty-sweet John.
It took awhile, but the attentive detective eventually made it to the other nipple, which cleaned up as nicely as the first.
Then the real fun began.
Sliding down a little more Sherlock opened his mouth and lapped up a mouthful of pasta. He messily slurped up the second. He nibbled the third. Then he sorta-kinda-on-purpose bit at the fourth and John's resulting wriggle made Sherlock hungrier, if that was possible. And so he continued to nibble, slurp, bite, suck, until he was really quite full and really rather hard.
Then John did another one of his endlessly-fascinating John things. He sat up and shoved his tongue in Sherlock's mouth, snaked one hand down and began stroking until his lover was all hard, then he lay down on his belly, and arched his back.
Sherlock's breathing got a little faster and a lot more ragged as he stretched his long body down over John's, snaking his arms around the other man's chest. "I love you," he said so softly no one else on earth could have heard the words except the one man they were meant for.
John tilted his head back, rubbed it against Sherlock's chin. "I love you too, you giant dope," he said with a laugh.
Sherlock nibbled at sandy hair a moment, then whispered, "Ready?"
In answer John arched his back again and spread his legs.
Sherlock withdrew an arm from around John and licked at his palm. He ran his hand over his own cock, then licked again, stroked again, until, between his own saliva and pre-come he was about as lubed as he could get.
He pressed his face into John's neck, then pressed his cock into John's body. The good doctor groaned.
For a moment Sherlock moved only the barest few degrees. He loved the incredible feeling…well it was almost pain…when he moved only enough to light a flame in nerve endings, but then did nothing to put out the fire.
John growled a warning beneath him, making Sherlock's breath hitch and then hold. The muscles in the doctor's back and legs went hard. "God damn it Sherlock," he hissed, "move."
And oh dear god Sherlock loved that just as much.
Yet even though his cock ached, and his muscles trembled, still Sherlock did not move.
"Now," growled the doctor, his voice hoarse, but shot through with that tone, the one Sherlock never would have believed he'd like, the one of a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed.
"Fuck. Me. Now."
Sherlock's body shook despite him and despite him he started thrusting. He started slowly, he usually did, but John was having none of it. Despite the fact that half Sherlock's weight held him down, despite their size difference, John pushed both their bodies up until he was on hands and knees, Sherlock still very much, very deeply inside him.
John arched his back yet again, hung his head, and groaned loudly through gritted teeth.
Broad shoulders—Sherlock thrust—broad back—pulled nearly all the way out—narrow waist—he thrust again, harder—Sherlock feasted on the sight of John's body, let it take his reason, and finally let it take his control.
"John," he warned, hips pumping very fast now, cock buried with each thrust, "oh John." The doctor reached around, grabbed at Sherlock's hip with one hand, scraped his nails hard over pale flesh.
And that was it—the brief, welcome pain sent Sherlock over the edge, and digging his own fingers into John's hips, he stuttered his lover's name as he came.
To be continued next chapter, wherein we discover what caused the carnage on the walls, the couch, the lamps, and the bookshelf, and wherein one Dr. John Watson comes despite himself—and with a little help from his (boy)friend.
And thank you Kijo Kurosaki for the suggestion of spaghetti!